Fragments
by Camillo
Summary: I've been looking for a decent analyst for a year, and all of a sudden, here you are! What do you think my chances are of nabbing you from GCHQ? HR missing scenes, starting a few months before series 2.
1. In the Beginning

Starting prior to Series 2 and using the timeline provided by the Kudos book, Harry's Diary, this fic is basically a series of short missing scenes I felt like writing. The main premise is that there was _something_ going on between Harry and Ruth from the start.

Updates will probably be annoyingly irregular. The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

The gods throw the dice, and they don't ask whether we want to be in the game or not.

_Paulo Coelho_

**In the Beginning**

**March, 2003**

The meeting is an important one. It is about the intelligence strategy for post-invasion Iraq. MI6 and the Ministry of Defence want to harvest as much information as possible before the CIA start to clamp down on things. They are also eager to begin planting sleepers amid the convenient chaos of displaced Iraqi civilians.

He is there as he numbers among the very few intelligence operatives who have actually witnessed the overthrow of a despotic leader in the region before. Given the results of the Iranian Revolution, and his memories of 1979, he is not exactly filled with joy.

She has been brought to London by her boss's boss to help out. She is a politically clean skin: untainted by any connections with MoD scientists or souped-up evidence. Her body language is hopelessly transparent. When in full flow on the origins of a new Jihadist organisation being murmured about in Baghdad, her eyes gleam blue, her hands dance their emphasis and her dark hair catches the midday sunlight. The rest of the time she is far more subdued. Words like "take advantage" and "susceptible" coax little frowns out of her. He knows exactly how she feels about the whole thing and tends to agree with her.

During a brief lapse in concentration, he pictures his index finger stroking a gentle line between her eyebrows, wiping the worry away. She catches his eye just after he blinks himself free of the fantasy and it's as if he's been dropped into a sauna. He invents a cough to cover the blushing. His ears burn and his scalp glows.

The meeting breaks up and Oliver Mace thanks her for her input in faintly condescending terms. Her face goes blank. She replies in a colourless voice, with a colourless gaze, right hand clutching a Bic biro that has black ink and a blue lid.

People begin to leave the room. He rises from the table and moves away as unobtrusively as possible. He is in surveillance mode: standing absolutely still in front of a bookcase, waiting to see what happens next. She shovels an alarmingly large pile of papers into an equally large handbag and sighs loudly. Then she sticks her tongue out at Mace's retreating back and flicks him a V-sign for good measure.

'I'm Harry Pearce,' he says quickly.

'I know,' she replies, turning her head towards him without a trace of surprise. So much for making himself unobtrusive.

'I was stationed in Tehran for a little while. Your Farsi sounds excellent.'

She beams at him. He knows no other way to describe the expression that his words seem to bring to her face. He has never seen anything like it before. _Is it a one-off, or can I make it happen again? _

'Do you have plans?' he enquires. 'I mean for this afternoon. For lunch. Um. Now?'

'Not really,' she admits. 'Actually, I thought I might play hooky and sneak off to the National Gallery for a couple of hours.'

'Can I come?'

'Well, yes. If you'd like to.'

'I would. I've been wanting to talk to you since about five past nine this morning.'

She is beginning to flush and her eyebrows - those eyebrows - are raised. 'The meeting only started at nine.'

'I know. But I've been looking for a decent analyst for a year, and all of a sudden, here you are! What do you think my chances are of nabbing you from GCHQ?'

'Really? Seriously?'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

They make friends whilst standing in front of Botticelli's painting of Venus and Mars. Supposedly, Venus looking alert while Mars takes a post-coital nap symbolises love conquering all. This doesn't stop them speculating in whispers that the real reason Venus is awake is because Mars is crap in the sack, leaving her unsatisfied. They draw a couple of disapproving frowns from nearby art lovers. They are two children skiving off school, delighting in each other's misbehaviour.

Before parting, he gives her the details of a hotmail account he has never accessed on the Grid – both the username and password. 'I'll leave you a message in the drafts folder. Log in to pick it up and reply with another draft. Never send anything. Don't touch the account when you're at work. Pop into an internet cafe, or something.'

She is surprised. 'Terrorist tactics?'

'I'm going to start the process of poaching you, and I want to be able to let _you_ know what's going on and _only_ you.'

'It's a bit like being a proper spy,' she says, beaming again.

'I like to think so. I'm glad I met you, Ruth. Do stay in touch.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 13/05/2003 19:55  
**

Hi there,

You prefer Tolkien to Austen? Sacrilege! But then I suppose you are male. I bet you like Thomas Hardy. And I bet you've read all the Sherlock Holmes stories.

I watched a film called "The Recruit" last night. It's about the training of CIA agents amongst other things. Have you seen the film yet? Should I be worried about basic training if my secondment ever happens?

A colleague has a ticket for England vs. South Africa at Lords at the end of July, but he can't go. I was wondering whether to buy it off him. Do you like cricket? I listen to Test Match Special when I get the chance, but I've never been to Lords.

Oh, by the way, saw some odd email traffic today while I was running a routine keyword search of G Square activity. Someone forgot to encrypt – talk about a schoolboy error! Any reason a chap from the IIB would be meeting with the cousins and Six at Heathrow?

Bye for now,

R.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 13/05/2003 22:12**

Forgot to encrypt? For heavens sake! They are so (insert expletive of your choice here) useless, but at least it makes our lives easier. No decent reason I can think of. I intend to find out.

I do like Hardy, Holmes and cricket. I also laughed all the way through Bridget Jones's Diary but I will deny it completely if you dare tell anyone.

I don't know how you watched The Recruit as it's no longer in the cinemas and not yet out on video. Consider me to be staring at you with beady eyes whilst admitting that within three hours of reading your email I managed to get hold of a confiscated pirate copy. I will be trying it out in my brand new DVD player as soon as I finish writing this.

One of my field officers can usually get me into the cricket. He used to play for Surrey. Doesn't the test start on the 31st? I can clear an afternoon if you're around. Or dinner? Or both?

So busy at the moment. SARS monitoring, possible Chechen activity in Birmingham, Iraq, Iraq, Iraq. The case for your presence at Thames House grows by the day. You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps.

Yours, not yet nibbled by Alsatians,

H.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 15/05/2003 13:10**

Lunchtime foray into town. Got the ticket! First day's play and I'm in the Grandstand. I love the ticket information – I am allowed to bring one bottle of wine/champagne or two cans of beer into the ground. Grape over grain prejudice, methinks. Where is a good place to meet? I'll have to catch a train back from Paddington. Do you know anywhere decent nearby for dinner?

In case you hadn't noticed, I live in Cheltenham. We're a few weeks behind the Metropolis when it comes to the movies. The cinema here had a late night showing and I couldn't sleep. So less of the beady eyes!

Work is even horrider than usual (is that a word?). I've been taken off my usual stuff and I'm on fulltime Persian and Arabic translation, straight off the wires. The powers that be simply don't want to accept that there's more than one dialect in the Arab world. My brain is fried. I am on my way past madness and rapidly heading towards batshit insane. Is a rescue imminent?

Yours, in hope,

R.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 15/05/2003 16:55**

Something is Up with a capital U. Go off sick for a week. Chicken pox usually works well. If you've already had it, try something similar. Failing that, you've got SARS. Failing that, smallpox!

As soon as you can, buy a new pay as you go phone and call 0756 499 7667.

It's not the rescue we've been hoping for, but I really need you, and it might well grease the wheels.

Yours,

H.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

The next time he sees her, it is shopping in the Cheltenham branch of Debenhams. He patrols the ladieswear section with military precision, grabbing anything natural, loose and lengthy in a size ten or twelve. She trots behind him, arms full of an increasingly large pile of clothing and a wary expression on her face. Every now and then she surreptitiously discards something he has just handed to her. He pretends not to notice.

'Have you got walking boots?' he barks.

'Er, yes.'

'Sandals?'

'Yes.'

A headscarf?'

'Um, maybe.'

He veers off towards the accessories. 'Go and try that lot on. You need enough clothing for a week. Shoulders, arms, legs, chest all covered, okay? You'd better bring a couple of prettier things in case we're required to mix in the evenings, but otherwise be plain and practical. It'll be dusty and sweaty and you might need to run.'

An hour later, she has popped her first anti-malarials and is turning her bedroom upside down in the search for clean underwear, walking socks and her favourite embroidered top.

Three hours after that, they are taking off from RAF Brize Norton. His nose rests against her hair as the plane's engines roar and he tells her their itinerary.

Seven hours after that, they are landing at the recently renamed Baghdad International Airport.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC


	2. Arcturus the Protector

Here's a bit more as a thank you for the lovely reviews. I'm back at work now, though. Ugh.

Updates will probably be annoyingly irregular. The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

I don't think we handled the aftermath of the fall of Baghdad as well as we might have. But that's now history.

_Colin Powell_

**Arcturus the Protector**

He spends the first day on the phone. Conversations with the Director General of MI5, the Chief of MI6, the Home Secretary and the Foreign Secretary get increasingly bad-tempered, but they are nothing compared to the diatribe that the Assistant Director of the CIA ends up listening to.

Eventually, he uses a COBRA protocol and speaks directly to the Prime Minister.

She has never been further than a Turkish holiday before and isn't exactly sure how to behave. Going out for a walk seems a bit dangerous when armoured vehicles full of American troops keep roaring past. Their hotel is full of would-be politicos, soldiers, early-bird contractors and intelligence operatives pretending to be all three. The majority of guests are white Westerners.

The few females in residence are hard-nosed, firm-arsed and in very high demand. Perversely, her relative timidity immediately makes her stand out. After overhearing a sleazy conversation between two contractors in the lobby, he spends less time in his room shouting and more time in her company listening. He possesses just enough charisma to keep the hounds at bay and is overtly territorial about it. He is not quite sure if he is putting on an act or not.

Just up the road, the Palestine Hotel is bursting at the seams with journalists. One of its dark restaurant booths provides the perfect setting in which to inform Amish Mani, Libby McCall and a young English man known only as Ronnie that they've been rumbled. Unable to make a scene in such a well-scrutinised venue, the CIA man conducts a short SatPhone conversation with Langley, during which the colour literally drains from his face.

They capitulate. The location of a shipping container packed with thirty kilograms of unirradiated, highly enriched uranium is grudgingly revealed. It has already crossed the border into Iraq and is being held by the smugglers who brought it over from Iran until Mani can collect it in person.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

A little market has formed just outside the Palestine. Batteries, CDs, textiles and even whiskey are available. They walk out into the twilight together and are immediately accosted by hawkers. Despite the heat of the day, the early summer evening holds a distinct chill. She finds it a welcome relief, but is mindful of night-time travelling to come. She barters hard for two blankets, quickly drawing a small crowd with her charming Baghdadi Arabic.

He doesn't understand the delight until the man with the White Horse whiskey pockets his twenty dollars, grins toothily and says, 'Your wife talks like a local! You have been here a long time?'

_Shit._

He joins her, hands over three times too much cash and snaps, 'We're leaving.'

'Oh, no!' she says in English. 'This is so much fun.'

He manoeuvres her away from the group, none too gently. 'God preserve me from impertinent women! Come _on!_'

His behaviour is nothing unusual in their current context. The stallholders chuckle their sympathy with him and wave them on their way. She hugs her two blankets and strides off down the road, exuding reproach.

'The best they can normally expect from a Westerner is classic Arabic,' he tells her in a stern undertone. 'Most of us are pig ignorant and employ a translator! How long do you think it'll take before the rumours of a white girl who talks like a native spread? Before someone starts to wonder how she learnt and what she's up to?'

It stops her in her tracks. 'Oh, God, Harry! I'm sorry. I just didn't think!'

Her eyes are shining dangerously. He gets her through the lobby and into the lift before she sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand and tips the waiting tears down her cheeks.

'It's all right,' he tells her gruffly. 'I should have briefed you better. And we're leaving tonight, anyway.'

'But I should have been more careful! I'm such an _idiot!_'

'You're not. Far from it, actually. How do you think I'll cope with Mani and a bunch of smugglers if I don't have you to tell me what's going on?'

She sniffs again and looks up at him. He shrugs encouragingly. The lift takes them by surprise as it lurches to a halt.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

The time spent on the phone seems to have done the trick. They are flying south at some 150 miles per hour in a Lynx helicopter, accompanied by six fully equipped members of the SAS. Beside them flies a second Lynx, containing three more men and space for a cylindrical shipment container.

The soldiers don't talk to the spooks. Their commanding officer is extremely unhappy about the presence of Amish Mani and has ordered his troops to don their night-vision goggles and hide their faces.

She is shivering. He knows there are two blankets in the rucksack that sits on the floor between her feet. Surrounded as they are by trained killers and military hardware, he can understand why she doesn't feel comfortable wrapping herself up in lamb's wool. He carefully shifts in his seat until contact is made along one side of their bodies, from shoulder, to elbow, to hip, to knee, to calf, to the soles of their boots. She doesn't even glance in his direction but the tremors subside.

They land in the midst of the great Hawizah Marsh, thirty miles from the largely un-policed Al Sheeb border crossing. As soon as the helicopter engines have idled to a stop, they begin to register the hiss of wind through the reeds and the ghostly ululation of water birds calling into the night. But it is the sky that makes her gasp. She tilts her head back and stares in awe at a heaven she'd never begun to imagine before.

'I still think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' the black-faced, machine-eyed SAS commander whispers to her, relenting in the face of such innocent wonder. 'You can understand why the ancients found their gods amongst the stars.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

The rotors of their Lynx are spinning in earnest, nuclear contraband carefully strapped in.

Amish Mani is kneeling in the rushes, hands behind his head. He stands over the Indian and lifts his gun.

'Harry!' she yells. 'Don't!'

Arcturus, the protector, is shining above her head. He purses his lips and plants a foot against Mani's chest, shoving him over backwards. He aims the gun again until Mani lies absolutely still, and then he turns and walks away.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

31st July, 2003

She brings champagne. He calls her mobile at one in the afternoon and explains that he cannot make the cricket or dinner.

England are skittled out for less than 200 runs. Three days later, they lose the match.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC


	3. He Looks Smaller When He's Asleep

Apologies for reposting - the site appears to be occasionally eating chapters. I hope it gets indigestion.

Updates will probably be annoyingly irregular. The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

Near as we can figure out, it has something to do with acting ridiculous in the dark. We believe it is similar to dogs when they act peculiar and ride each other. This is called "making love". Careful study of popular song lyrics, advertising catch-lines, TV sitcoms, movies, and T-Shirt inscriptions offers us significant clues as to its nature. Apparently it makes grown-ups insipid and insane. Some graffiti was once observed that said "sex is good". All available evidence, however, points to the contrary.

_Matt Groening_

**He Looks Smaller When He's Asleep**

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 01/08/2003 04:04**

I was sorting my son out. Again. His fourth charge of possession of a Class A substance. The fourth charge I have persuaded the lovely coppers at Brixton Police Station to drop. If it was possession with intent to distribute I would have left him there.

He came home with me this time. I'm now short of eighty quid, my watch and my mother's pearl earrings, which were meant for my daughter on her wedding day. The something old will have to be something else.

I'm sorry I couldn't make it. Heard on the radio that we were pretty dreadful, but at least it didn't rain.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 14/08/2003 19:54**

Oh god I've only just checked this account. I'm sorry.

Training is completely knackering me out – It's not quite as bad as The Recruit but it's not that far off. I'm apparently very unfit and I'm scared of guns. I suppose I shouldn't tell you that if you're about to be my boss.

A friend of mine from uni has a house in Kennington. I saw the stained glass in the front door and it was love at first sight. He's working in Dubai, making megabucks, so he has rented the house to me for peanuts! Going back to Cheltenham this weekend to pack up the rest of my stuff and bring it back.

I gather your son is an addict. My stepbrother is. He drinks. He used to be a very good policeman until they found out and fired him. Now he sponges off my mother. I know it's different, but still. I think taking your son home with you was the right thing to do.

I hope you read this.

R.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 15/08/2003 22:15**

I did read it. Thank you.

Great news about the house but you have to promise me you won't walk home from work after dark! Do you need any help moving?

Yours,

H.

P.S. I designed quite a lot of the training schedule. You'll love the swim in the Thames. And the running.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 16/08/2003 20:49**

Any time. Really.

There is a good bus route. It stops practically at the end of my road.

Moving should be ok. I've rented a transit van for the weekend. As long as I can find my way to the M4 it should be fine. Keep your fingers crossed, though. I've never driven a van before!

Thames swim? You'd better be joking. Have I got a start date yet?

Yours,

R.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

**Draft Message**

**Last saved: 17/08/2003 05:10**

Induction day at Thames House on the 4th, you're on the Grid on the 5th. Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

Yours,

H.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

He sleeps for the entire journey. His security man and driver are aware that it is his first opportunity for more than twenty-four hours. They sit in silence and limit themselves to the occasional glance at the huddled figure on the back seat. Both of them think that he looks much smaller when he's asleep.

'I have no idea how long I'm going to be,' he informs them groggily when they arrive at a terraced house in Cheltenham. He swigs from a bottle of Evian and pops a Trebor mint into his toothbrush-deprived mouth. 'If I were you, I'd get some dinner in and assume the worst. This one can dither for England.'

She opens the door and stares at him as a cat darts past their legs and into the evening gloom. He doesn't have time to speak before her face lights up, and he has trouble getting words out after. It is astonishing how wonderful it is to see her again.

He hands her his coat and sits down heavily on the sofa, smiling as he notices an Iraqi blanket folded at one end. The sitting room is full of cardboard boxes, which in turn are full of books and picture frames. Something is cooking in the kitchen and it makes his stomach grumble. 'Did you get my latest email?' he asks.

'Yes!' she says, folding his coat over one arm. 'I can't believe it's actually happening. GCHQ is dreadfully short of Persian speakers and they still haven't officially signed off the secondment.'

He yawns widely. 'They want something in return,' he exhales.

'I'm seeing my manager on Monday before I drive back.'

'Strike a deal. Whatever they want. Just make sure you tell me what they're after.'

'If you're sure.'

He gazes up at her. 'I'm absolutely positive.'

Their business is done. He has no reason to stay. He had no reason to come, really, except for the traditional courtesy of confirming a job face-to-face. No _official_ reason at any rate.

She hangs the coat on the end of the stairs and comes to sit next to him. 'You look tired. Is everything all right?'

'Just some trouble with Tom. My section chief, you know?'

'Yes.'

'His girlfriend gave him the ultimatum and he's really cut up about it.'

'Poor thing.'

He lifts an enquiring eyebrow. 'Him, or his girlfriend?'

She tucks one leg up and turns to face him. 'Poor Tom. She should understand that some jobs are more important than others. She should be proud of what he does.'

'Proud?'

'Defending the realm. Protecting our way of life. Working to ensure our safety. What more could you ask for? Assuming the love and fidelity bit apply, of course.'

'The hours are dreadful and so is the pay.'

'Doesn't Tom's girlfriend manage a restaurant? I'm sure you mentioned it. She should know all about working late and earning sod all.'

He smiles at this but it turns into a grimace. 'There's something else,' he tells her. 'We kept it quiet.'

'What?'

'She got stuck inside Tom's house with a bomb. Her daughter, too.'

'_What?_'

'It didn't detonate. They'd both be dead otherwise. Jesus, Ruth! It was a mess. Security system on the blink, an unreliable asset, and a laptop that should have been at bloody Thames House, not Tom's house.'

'You think she has a point, then?'

'I do. My own marriage was a disaster, and my children despise me. It's not fair to put a civilian through it.'

'So we should go through life alone?'

'Not necessarily. The best relationship I've ever witnessed was between two colleagues at Section D.'

'Was?'

He visibly wilts. 'They didn't die because of the service. It was a car crash.'

'I'm sorry!' She is horrified. 'I didn't mean to pry.'

He slumps back and stares at the ceiling. Then he rolls his head towards her. 'You didn't pry. No, you really didn't. Do you know, I've never had a conversation like this.'

'Like what?'

'You know exactly what I do for a living. And I bet you've done your homework since we got back. You probably have more information about me than the rest of my team put together. But you're still pleased to see me. We're both single. We're both free to ... to ...'

She is beaming again. He is losing his head completely – his heart, he realises suddenly, is long gone. _Oh, hell, I should have just kissed her. Now she's speaking again._

'I can't _possibly_ start a new job as the one who is shagging the boss, Harry! Your team would hate me! Imagine what the _gossip_ would be like.' She literally shudders at the thought of it. 'I really want this secondment to go well.'

'So do I! I wasn't joking about needing an analyst.'

She can't quite meet his eye. 'But I wasn't expecting this.' She waggles a finger between them. 'It's really, um—'

Kissing her feels like opening the curtains on a beautiful morning and sliding between dark, silky bed sheets at the same time. They don't actually make it into a bed. Too much time is wasted stumbling over her half-packed possessions to make it past the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

He has experienced his fair share of passion. First, second and third love. His marriage bed. Even the fabulous sting of adrenaline-fuelled orgasm with a glamorous lady. This wobbly-kneed, heart-blistering, euphoric rumpy-pumpy with his brand new analyst is different again. It's been a long time, he's never done the whole lot standing up before, but somehow things just _work_.

They partially straighten clothing, kiss with comic frequency, grin foolishly, drink Chianti, eat her macaroni cheese straight from the oven dish, talk shop indiscreetly, gawp at each other's bodies in the shower and get to bed just in time for an almost worryingly good bout of _soixante-neuf_. It's possible she has ruined him for anyone else. It's probable that nothing will ever taste quite as glorious, and definite that he will never, _ever_ forget the thing she does with her tongue at the same time as—

He is in the process of earnestly explaining these things to her breasts when his phone rings. 'I should take the call,' he tells her left nipple apologetically. 'I know it's late, but the Home Office booked it in earlier.'

'Bugger the Home Office,' she replies, attempting to keep him where he is via the simple expediency of rolling on top of him.

He is strong enough to climb out of bed, Ruth and all, and stagger over to the dressing table where he left his mobile. She squeaks her surprise and gets the giggles, biting his shoulder against giveaway laughter as he presses the green button.

'Yes? Oh, good evening, Home Secretary. No, no. Not too busy. _Ow!_ Yes. Sorry about that. Stubbed my toe.'

They snooze until two in the morning and then wake each other up with caresses and kisses that seem to say important things. Their sleep-warmed skin is mutually delicious. She turns the bedside lamp back on so she can see him. Her eyelashes stroke his chest as she lays her cheek over his heart.

'I'm really sorry. I've got to get going. My driver's overtime sheet is _not_ going to please the finance department.'

He can't see her lips moving but he can feel them. 'What are we going to do, Harry?'

'You know what I want.'

'A partner in all things?'

'Yes.'

She lifts her head, rests her chin on his breastbone and looks him in the eye. 'Working together and sleeping together is a risk. I might disagree with you. You might think I'm a crap employee. I might get hurt. You might die. What happens then?'

Such gravity amidst such joy is unbearable. He tugs a lock of her hair. Paintbrushes the end of her nose with it. 'You're our intelligence expert. You ought to know.'

She is a dab hand at the torture known as tickling. He can't remember shrieking with laughter since he was a boy.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

'The next time I see you, it'll be at work,' she says brightly, carefully checking his coat for cat hair.

He adds the finishing touches to his half-Windsor tie knot and pulls his shirt collar down before meeting her gaze in the mirror. 'It doesn't have to be.'

'Yes it does.' Her eyes beg him to agree. '_Please_ don't distract me, Harry. I can't guarantee I'll be able to do the best job I can, otherwise.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC


	4. Like Granite

Now they're actually working together.

Updates will probably be annoyingly irregular. The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

When we got into office, the thing that surprised me most was to find that things were just as bad as we'd been saying they were.

_John F. Kennedy_

**Like Granite**

The one thing they both already know is that life is rarely simple. The other thing they discover quite quickly is that their Thames House personas clash. They start well enough. They tease each other with double meanings. She makes important and obscure connections. But it is _incredibly_ hard to reconcile the man who puts tomato ketchup on his macaroni cheese with the man who authorises the exploitation of a teenaged Muslim agent – whose feet are beaten so badly that the resulting blood clot gives him a brain haemorrhage. Baghdad was a simple checkerboard. The Grid is like granite: glinting crystals of black and white all jumbled up with the dubious grey.

In an attempt to shelter her from the consequences of her double-agent status, he keeps her as far out of the loop as possible. He even dismisses her from briefings early. She spends three solid days staring at a Homeric quote that she learned off by heart when she was doing her A-Levels. As if that isn't insulting enough, Danny and Zoe can bitch for the UK given half a chance, and it doesn't take long to eavesdrop on a corridor conversation about her supposed loyalty to GCHQ.

He is distinctly relieved when Tom realises that someone on the Grid is leaking information to Whitehall. He decides not to let her know that the game is up, thinking that at least she won't have to feign surprise or distress. It culminates in a horrible riverside conversation with Tom, worsened by the fact that the layers of lies simply increase in number.

Her body language does not encourage. Suspecting that he might have made a tactical error, but convinced it was for her own good, he sets himself at a deliberate distance, appears to thrive on confrontation and is both irritable and demanding. The frantic pace and brash nature of the field officers leaves her feeling even more insecure, which starts to manifests itself as exasperating vacillation.

After ten weeks and one EERIE exercise, she thinks he's a heartless bastard, and he's wondering if she's cut out for Section D. It doesn't help that he is desperate not to take advantage of his position while she is afraid that she'll burst into tears and beg for special treatment. They have stopped leaving messages in the drafts folder of a certain email address. They are missing each other dreadfully. He spends Christmas in London, alone. She goes back to Cheltenham to see her Mum.

Her stepbrother, Peter, is at her Mum's house. He gets so drunk on Christmas Eve that she finds him lying on the sofa at seven on Christmas morning, wet with urine and dead to the world.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

April 2004

During a potentially disastrous POTUS visit, a psychologist called Miranda Sawyer interviews some of the team, in what she calls a steam-valve exercise. Tom is so livid about it that he calls in a couple of large'ish favours and has Miranda fired.

He pretends to be livid, too, but of course he knew about her remit from the Personnel Department right from the start, and did nothing to prevent her progress. He drinks three fingers of twenty-one year-old Macallan (the direr the situation, the cheaper the whiskey: today was a good day) and reads all of the resulting transcripts.

Two sentences set the mental version of an air raid siren wailing within his skull. Zoe suspects that Ruth has been in love with him since day one. How the hell can Zoe think that when he can't see it at all? Exactly when did he lose the ability to read her? Did he _ever_ have it? Ego threadbare, he conveniently forgets Zoe's opinion on the matter and concentrates on Ruth's interview. She will not even admit to liking him, just that he is a good boss.

A couple of weeks later, his house is burgled. He has broken two cardinal rules: taking a major piece of work home with him and using the same code for both his front door and the safe in his spare room. He knows he is an absolute bloody idiot – far worse, so do his team.

At lunchtime, she quietly opens his office door and finds him hiding behind the blinds with his head in his hands.

'Are you all right?'

'Clearly not.'

'It's a bit of a shock, having your house broken into. When I was a student it happened to me. I was sharing a house. They took all of our stereo equipment and we weren't insured.'

'That was very silly of you.'

'I suppose it was.'

He looks up. Angry. Ashamed of himself. 'What do you want?' he asks curtly.

'That briefcase should have been in bloody Thames House, not your house!' she bursts out. 'Don't you ever think about what happened to Tom's old girlfriend? What exactly _were_ you thinking?'

'It was the middle of the night when I got it. I was tired.' _Damn it all to hell, don't look at me as if you care. _'It's none of your business anyway!'

'Don't I know it!' she snaps back. 'Heaven forbid I get close enough to ask how you are. If you'll be okay on your own tonight.'

'What on earth are you talking about? You're the one who told me to keep a distance!'

She tilts her head, brow puckered. 'Christ, Harry! It's not nice being burgled. Muddy footprints on the stairs and SOCO fingerprint powder everywhere.'

'No SOCO. I haven't reported the break-in.'

'Well that makes all the difference!' she exclaims sarcastically, exasperated arms flapping. She walks over to his corner and reaches out a hesitant hand to rub his arm. 'Are you okay?'

One touch is all it takes. His head drops forward until it rests on her shoulder. His universe clears its cosmic throat and begins to breathe more easily.

'There's a team at my house packing everything,' he mumbles. 'Security breach. I'm stuck in a safehouse until I can sell up and find somewhere else.'

They both know what this means: CCTV monitoring his comings and goings. He is being kept on a short leash. Internal Affairs will start sniffing about if he stays out all night without providing an explanation, and they'll certainly take notice – and photographs – if she visits.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

Her secondment renewed for another six months she no longer hesitates about coming to see him. His office door may as well be nonexistent for all the notice she takes of it.

His house is on the market but he hasn't found a buyer yet.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC

For our American friends: SOCO = Scene of Crime Officers, pronounced "sock-oh".


	5. I Chose Milbank

Thank you, heartily, to those who reviewed the last chapter! You know about the disclaimer and the update thing, right? My husband has been overseas for a week but he's back tomorrow. Work is also getting into feverish mode again. I've got a couple of chapters in the holding pen to try and keep up the posting momentum, but please bear with me as each new section requires a multiple re-watch and pondering. I'm a slooow writer.

However, I noticed the other night that I've gone over 100,000 words posted on this site. In logistical terms, this means I've written a novel over 3.5 years. In artistic terms, it means I'm still monumentally uncertain about punctuation and how to construct scenes, characters and chapters, let alone whole stories. Never mind! If you'd like to de-lurk in the spirit of a 100,000th anniversary, for an online high-five, please don't pause before clicking the review button. You don't even have to sign in ;-)

* * *

Let him who loves his country with his heart, and not merely with his lips, follow me.

_Giuseppe Garibaldi_

**I Chose Milbank**

June 2004

He is perching on the edge of her desk with his jacket off and his arms folded. 'My meeting with the Home Secretary has been cancelled because the news about the Deputy Prime Minister's latest affair is about to break. The cabinet are busy plotting his resignation as we speak.'

'Serves the little squirt right,' she says cheerfully. 'I don't think MPs should have to stand down purely because of adultery, but he's crap at his job as well. I've been wondering how long it would take the tabloids to find out. '

'Five weeks longer than it took MI5. The natural order of things endures.'

'That's good.'

'Isn't it just? Anyway, my point is that I've got an unexpected afternoon free, and I want to see you in action.'

She makes an odd noise, blinks a few times and tries again. 'Action?'

'It's a beautiful summer's day. I'm not letting you loose in the field until someone from Section D has at least checked that you don't burst into flames when sunlight hits you. Let's go!'

'Right now?'

'Yes! Quick as you can. Preferably before the bloody phone rings again.'

It really is a beautiful day. They stroll through the Victoria Tower Gardens. Sunlight dodges between bright green sycamore leaves; it warms her skin but there are no signs of incipient combustion. He pulls a scrap of paper out of his jacket pocket and hands it to her. 'This is a Westminster address. I want you to find it without returning to the office for information, and without using your phone. Before you get there, I want you to lose me. And you have to arrive at precisely three o'clock.'

'Lose you?'

'I'm going to tail you. You should be able to shake off one person, no matter how good they are.'

He will try to follow her wherever she goes. It sounds like a lovely way to practice espionage. 'Okay. Will I see you afterwards, or should I go straight back to the Grid?'

'I'll be at that address one way or the other. Off you go. Don't forget that even if you can't see me, it doesn't mean I can't see you.'

She is determined not to scuttle away too quickly. She turns and walks quite slowly towards the Palace of Westminster, stopping to bid good-day to the statue of Emily Pankhurst near the park exit. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him apparently deep in conversation on his mobile phone some thirty metres away. His hair glints golden in the sunshine as he rotates on the spot and turns his back on her. The gesture is deliberately arrogant. She watches him for a fraction of a second longer than she should do. A grey-suited, middle-aged civil servant who is beginning to sweat in the afternoon heat. There is nothing obviously remarkable about him.

She dodges a herd of Japanese tourists preparing to snap photos of Emily, walks through the gate, and heads to her right along the perpetually busy stretch of pavement and sectioned off road that runs past the Houses of Parliament. There is a sense of urgency in the air, exacerbated by the television news teams dotted about the place. Regardless of today's sleazy source of excitement it _is_ impressive. The road around Parliament Square is heaving with traffic. She walks straight on along the eastern side, jogs to get across Bridge Street before the traffic lights change, and ducks into Westminster Station. She has no idea how close behind he is.

WH Smiths has copies of the A to Z on display. She came here because the pavement newsstands are cannier, keeping the books out of reach at the back near the cigarettes. She grabs a copy, flicks through the index, finds the right page number and grid reference, shuffles back past umpteen unwanted maps and settles on the one she needs. The address is only about twenty minutes walking distance away, and she has an hour and a half to kill.

She buys a couple of overpriced Cornetto ice-creams and a bottle of water on her way out of the station. This time she has to wait at the pedestrian crossing. Just before the little green man appears, she spins around and finds he is part of the same impatient crowd. She holds up both the Cornettos. Without speaking he chooses the mint choc-chip. She gives him a half-smile and turns away, immediately carried along by the surge of humanity released onto the road.

Soon she crosses again, wandering along the path between Westminster Abbey and St Margaret's Church whilst unwrapping her ice-cream. She bears left and left again onto Great Smith Street, walking steadily past rather splendid red brick buildings. The separate sex entrances of an old public bathhouse make her smile again. She stops to examine the face of the building more carefully, and has a quick look back along the street. There is no sign of him but he must be there somewhere.

By the time she is nearing the crossroads of Marsham Street with Great Peter's Street, her Cornetto is a pleasant memory and she is mentally kicking herself. Before her lies an enormous building site. The three ugly towers of the Department of the Environment have been torn down and the new Home Office looks a long way from completion. Beyond the junction, the road is closed. Dust hangs in the air, and she sips her water gratefully. She feels oddly frightened at the thought of trying to find a way through. Modernity threatens. She beats a hasty retreat down Great Peter's Street, cutting through to the elegance of Smith's Square with a big sigh of relief.

Now, she is on familiar ground. She numbers amongst those at MI5 who tell their old school friends they work at the Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. The offices are here, and she made sure of the geography while she was completing her basic training. So far, Defra is her only legend, and she feels a proprietary fondness for the place.

The shady steps of St John's, Smith's Square, are a welcome relief. She has covered barely a kilometre of ground but concentrating fiercely on the map in her mind and feeling the constant itch of adrenaline takes its toll. She can see why Tom, Zoe and Danny are in seriously good physical condition. She can't help wondering what the man following her was like before he became Section Head. She can't stop wondering where he is. Whether he is excited, too. Whether he is hot and thirsty. What he makes of her. How she looks to him. How he thinks she is performing.

She circles St John's three times and there is still no sign of him. At the last minute, she ducks down Dean Stanley Street and into a branch of Lloyd's Bank. The lunchtime rush is over and there is a cashier free. She pulls a leaflet about mortgages out of a rack and waves it at the girl in mute explanation. The girl looks away and taps her computer keyboard with a single forefinger.

Pretending to examine the information about fixed-rate deals, she looks out of the window. Within two minutes he has appeared. He walks steadily past the bank without turning his head and she feels a stab of triumph. The emotion doesn't last long. After reading every leaflet available, she carries on towards the river and finds him leaning against the black railings of the Victoria Tower Gardens – sheltering under the same sycamores that they started near.

She waves a wry hello and thinks about joining him and admitting defeat. Just as she is about to turn away, and have another go, a black cab pulls up beside her. 'Where you goin' luv?' the driver asks, elbow resting on the taxi's window frame, shirtsleeve rolled back.

'Just up the road,' she replies, jumping in.

She turns around in her seat and sees him looking in vain for another taxi as she rides away. As soon as she is sure that he will not find her, and she can still find the address, she stops the cab and prepares to pay. It was incredibly convenient, him turning up like that just when she needed to escape. It gives her an idea.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

'Does a taxi count as cheating?' she calls, at three p.m. precisely.

He waits until she is close and says calmly, 'Not at all. It's no good if you're penniless but otherwise it's fair game.'

'Where were you in Smith's Square? I was looking for you everywhere!'

'Hiding behind a pillar. If you'd taken any other route you would have lost me. I took an educated guess which way you'd head.'

'Educated?'

'If someone thinks they're being followed, they tend to head for the places they know well. It's instinctive to want familiar surroundings.'

'So I chose Milbank.'

'Exactly. You'll know another time.'

'Why here?'

'I'm thinking about buying this house, and I could do with a second opinion.'

Her eyes bulge. 'Oh, Harry. I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask.'

'You're bound to be better than me. All I'm worried about it whether I can have a satellite dish so I can watch the cricket. And the rugby.'

She can't help laughing. 'Priorities.'

'Well, you know what they say. There's work, and then there's religion. Come on. The estate agent gave me the key – the owner is one of those property tycoon types who lives in a Buckinghamshire mansion and annoys his farming neighbours. I think this place might have been for one of his mistresses.'

She watches him unlock the door and follows him in. 'You can sound like a right snob when you want to.'

He taps a code into the burglar alarm console and silence surrounds them. The hallway has an intricately patterned Victorian tiled floor.

'It's a bit smaller than my old place, but it's incredibly near to work.

'Is that a good thing?'

'Every minute not commuting is precious with the hours I do.'

'I suppose so.'

They walk through to the back of the house and explore the kitchen first. She thinks it's a bit smooth and bland; he says that makes it easier to keep clean. The sitting room has blue-grey walls – some kind of period colouring. She thinks it's grim; he thinks it's smart. The dining room has a lovely original ceiling rosette and plenty of room for a table of eight. She imagines candlelight, a bit too much red wine, and as yet unmade friends over for dinner. He reckons he'll never use the room and barely glances at it. Their tastes are different, to put it mildly, and his disinterest is obvious. Until they stride into the master bedroom, arguing over the relative merits of Turner's London paintings.

'He's not exactly Canaletto, is he?'

'No! Thank God. I'll take the atmosphere over the architecture any day.'

'Style over substance, eh? That does surprise me. Oh, look, this is nice.'

She looks at the enormous bed. 'It's lovely. I like the window.'

He looks at the enormous bed. 'Ruth—'

'Was this whole afternoon a setup, Harry? Get me all flustered by chasing me around Westminster and then take advantage of a friend's house?'

'Christ, no!'

She turns to face him, intending to be sceptical. Instead, she somehow ends up with her tongue in his mouth. Their embrace is so viciously sweet that they both moan. It feels as if the ground has ripped open beneath her, and she is floating above an abyss. If he lets go of her now, she will plunge straight down into the inferno and she will be absolutely alone. Even Dante had Virgil to help him find a way out.

As he walks her backwards towards the bed, and her body continues to rejoice, she wonders if a deliberate trek downwards gives her a better chance of survival than a sudden, devastating drop. She experienced the latter when her father died, and if he couldn't stick around then what other man will? Such doubts lower her hands and pull her head back. He leans forward, following her until their lips break apart, then resting his forehead against hers. His chest is heaving. He is almost sobbing for breath.

'Ruth?'

'I can't do this. I'm sorry.'

He withdraws slightly and meets her eye. 'Is it the wrong time? You know ...'

Idiotically, she blushes. He has an ex-wife and two children; the menstrual cycle is not an obscure theoretical concept. 'No. It's not that. I just don't want to.'

As lies go, it is an absolute whopper. She can see the opinion flicker in his eyes, followed fast by the temptation to ignore her words and plough on. But a gentleman never presumes. He very gently releases her. The descent has begun.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

He buys a different house somewhere nearby. He kills its unwelcoming silence by acquiring a stubborn-looking Jack Russell cross from a West London rescue centre. As soon as he partially admits his insane working hours to the staff, grumpy little Scarlet is the only dog they will let him have. They regard each other suspiciously for a day or two and have a couple of arguments about not sitting on the leather sofa – although the fabric one is allowed.

Work finds him a combined cleaner and dog walker. She is the wife of a depressed Chinese dissident who is trying her best to learn English, and who is glad of any excuse to get out of the Lambeth bedsit their housing benefit provides. Her favourite place in the world is the New Covent Garden Market and his home is the recipient of regular floral tributes. He is settling in.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC


	6. From a Shotgun

Not exactly Valentine fwuff ;-)

The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

Never refuse to do a kindness, unless the act would work great injury to yourself, and never refuse to take a drink – under any circumstances.

_Mark Twain_

**From a Shotgun**

Tom has fallen in love again, and it looks like the feeling is mutual.

A Section Chief and his CIA Liaison have the experience and the operational freedom to dance the kind of spooky tango around London that makes his single failed attempt look pathetic. What makes him _colossally_ jealous is the fact that they are damn well making the most of it. Christine must be taking some serious risks; Tom is cheerfully defying a direct order from his boss. _She_ can't seem to defy a few unexpressed fears.

She lets Zoe boss her around, despite the fact that she holds a more senior position. She weevils about the Grid with hunched shoulders, hushed tones and a tense but apologetic expression on her face, and it makes him want to hit something. The little shack of professional inhibition she has built herself makes it even harder for him to act. The gossip _will_ be rampant and vicious if they start something now. If only she'd just made it clear from the beginning that they were together, and donned a suitably incredulous expression when Danny made his first tactless remark, they wouldn't be in this state.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

For two days, Tom, Zoe and Danny have been up to something dodgy. It never ceases to amaze him how easily they forget that he was a field officer for sixteen years. He knows the cycle of on-the-Grid, off-the-Grid movements associated with the type of work they do, and what they are saying simply does not match what they are doing.

He has one of those gut feelings that something is wrong. They don't happen often but he has had one or two corkers in his time and he trusts his instincts. When news comes in that an assassin Tom is supposedly hunting down is actually dead in a Florida storm drain, the gut feeling gains a factual basis.

Although there seems to be little personal hope, it feels right to take her into his professional confidence. They ride the Thames House lift and walk out together for a second time. They avoid the park. She tells him without hesitation that she will stand by him as he issues an arrest warrant for Tom Quinn.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

7 July 2004

Shot. He is _shot_. With shot. From a shotgun. Tom stands barely eight feet away when he pulls the trigger, and his shoulder and upper arm are quite literally a bloody mess. He is in so much pain and he is more frightened than he is used to coping with. There have been twenty-eight attempts on his life and this is the worst injury he's ever had.

On previous painful occasions, memories of his mother have instinctively arrived. He has craved the indescribable solace of her smile and her arms. He never thought of his wife in such a way, perhaps instinctively knowing that her presence wouldn't soothe.

He lies in a secure hospital room after three hours of surgery to remove one-hundred and sixty-three little pieces of lead designed for game birds rather than humans. It is not a complete surprise that this time he longs for Ruth to arrive. He bites his lip against the drug-softened scorch of his wounds and knows that her touch would make everything seem better.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

He is dozing fitfully when a noise makes him lift his head. 'Thank God. Morphine's doing the trick at last.'

She looks into his dreamy eyes. 'It's not the morphine, Harry, it's really me.'

'I don't believe you. You've got a halo. Morphine or heaven, darling?'

'Okay, you might be a bit, um, high.'

She carefully moves the table out of the way, places a chair next to him, sits down and takes his right hand in hers. She is alarmed when he sighs. 'Does that hurt?'

'No. Feels _so_ good. I've missed you. Will you stroke my hair?'

'Like this?'

'Mmmm, s'nice. Can I have a drink of water?'

'Of course you can. Here you go. That's it. Better?'

'Mmmm. Much better. Ruth?'

'Yes?'

'Tom shot me!'

'I know. I was so worried about you. We all were.'

'It really fucking hurts.'

'Oh, Harry, I'm sorry! It will get better. The nurses say you haven't got an infection or anything. They think you'll be back home in another week.'

'Good. That's good. I'll be fine in no time. No time. No time like the present!' He tries to sit up and she hastily puts a hand on his chest to keep him down.

'You have to stay here for now,' she says gently. The glow surrounding her shifts and brightens as she smiles down at him. 'Your hair has grown. It's nice.'

He takes her hand, intertwines their fingers and rests the lot together on his sternum. 'I'm really sleepy now.'

'That's good. You go to sleep.'

'Will you be here?'

'I can stay for a little while. I have to get back to the Grid, though.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

17th July 2004

Time has started to slip away from him. Vivid, violent dreams have him waking in a cold sweat regardless of whether it is morning, noon or night. It's not as if he has ever been inundated with visitors, but he's almost sure there have been none at all for three days, and he is by no means certain that she really did sit beside his bed and stroke his hair. He is contemplating the complete crapness of his situation when a pretty young nurse walks through the door and places a tray in front of him. She gives him a wink that confuses him completely until she lifts the lid on a Morse-coded missive. His shoulder thuds along in time with his heart.

'Florence! Come back here.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I need a telephone. Right now. And you _have_ to get me out of here.'

'I don't _have_ to do anything!'

'In cases of unlawful imprisonment, exemplary damages may be awarded when there is evidence of oppressive, arbitrary or unconstitutional action by servants of the government. It's fifty grand if there's a high-ranking official involved.'

'So?'

'Is my door locked?'

'Yes.'

He holds up the crumpled note. 'Have I been denied any visitors?'

'Yes. Your girlfriend is really worried, poor thing.'

His smile is unexpectedly charming. 'Well there you go. I'll split the compensation fifty-fifty with you.'

Florence – or Jenny as she's otherwise known – watches him disconnect his own drip with frighteningly practiced ease, shove the table away, carefully arrange his left arm across his chest and sit up straight. Even after ten days, such unassisted movement must be agonising, but he doesn't make a sound. She switches the heart monitor off. 'I'll get you a sling and then get rid of the catheter. Here, you can borrow my mobile phone in the meantime.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

She corners him in his office at three a.m. 'If you won't go back to hospital, you _have_ to go home!'

'There's no point. The JIC meet first thing in the morning and that's only a few hours away.'

'Then go upstairs to one of the bedrooms and get a few hours rest!'

It's tempting. He's due to see the duty doctor for antibiotics and painkillers anyway. 'All right. But if I do, I need a favour.'

'What?'

'A nurse got me dressed. I can't even change my shirt without help. There's a new one in my desk. Will you come up at seven o'clock and give me a hand?'

Her gaze darts off to one side. 'I'd rather you asked Danny.'

~ooooO0Ooooo~

Crisis averted, he drinks a large Scotch at his club, courtesy of Oliver Mace. He is hovering six inches above reality on a magic carpet of opiates, alcohol and the dextroamphetamine that Sally Chapman grudgingly handed over yesterday to keep him going.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

He is at home. Signed off work for four weeks. He sits on his bed and thinks about the fact that he has been wearing the same trousers and pants for four days in a row because he was too embarrassed to ask Danny for more help. He is desperate for a proper wash and unsure about the logistics. He carefully removes his sling and unbuttons his shirt. By the time he has managed to shrug it off both shoulders, and get his arms out of the sleeves, he is crying.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC

Notes:

The relevant episode shows Harry out of bed and back on the Grid the same day Zoe and Danny get back from the house where he was shot (everyone still wearing the same clothes). Harry's Diary allots 10 days between getting shot and getting to wander around with a sling and a wounded expression.

There are lots of references to Harry's shoulder bullet wound in Spooks fanfic. But you know what a double-barrelled shotgun looks like, right? Shotguns in English farmhouses contain cartridges full of little tiny balls of lead.


	7. Halcyon Days

This chapter is for egg whisker - who gives lovely and frequent reviews ;-)

I've caught up with the completed chapters of this now, and the next one is really tricky, so this will be the last one for a little while. I'm sure there will be more, just not exactly when that will be.

The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.

_Henry James_

**Halcyon Days**

'I thought I'd pop 'round and see how you're doing.'

'Did you draw the short straw on the Grid?'

She shrugs. 'It was scissors, paper, stone, actually. I had a dreadful run of form.'

'Come in, then. Careful not to let the dog out.'

He has the beginnings of a beard. He is wearing a zipped hooded top with apparently nothing underneath, a pair of tracksuit bottoms, no socks and slip-on shoes. He is still using the same sling, and it is beginning to look grubby.

'I'm not used to seeing you so, er, casual.'

For that she gets a filthy look. 'I suppose it's either a Savile Row suit or my birthday suit where you're concerned. I'm having a spot of trouble dressing at the moment. I think I might have mentioned it to you before.'

'Does that include shaving?' She's sorry, but there's no need to be rude.

'No. I can still handle a razor. I just thought I may as well go the whole hog. Mrs Choo very kindly buys me the clothes I ask for. I gather Primark is the most convenient shop between my house and hers.'

'Mrs Choo?'

'Housekeeper and general lifesaver. Hasn't looked me in the eye since she started occasionally helping me into – and out of – my lovely new collection of sweaters.'

Possibly, he is allowed to be a little bit rude after all. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

She follows him into the sitting room. It is painted with the murkiest olive-grey colour he could find. He loves it. He knows she'll hate it. 'There are lots of things you could do for me, but I don't think you want to. And the idea of persuading you to nurse me out of a sense of obligation to your boss, or due to some kind of guilt, is frankly disgusting. Go away, Ruth. I'm fine.'

She hasn't been sleeping. She hasn't been able to concentrate. She loses her temper. 'You bloody idiot! Of course I'd be happy to do anything you want. It would be a-a-a _pleasure_. But it'll only make things harder!'

'Why do they have to be so hard? Give me one decent reason.'

Tears have started to form. 'It's not that they _have_ to be hard! They just _are_, Harry! I'm so sorry. I genuinely didn't realise you wouldn't have a friend ... or one of your children or something ... to help you out. Why didn't you ask Danny? Or explain the situation to me and ask again? Or get Doctor Chapman to sort you out with some nursing?'

A normal man would have his wife or his son at home. A brother who comes to stay for a bit. One of his old field officer chums popping in for an hour after work every day. But his wife has divorced him, his children hate him, his brother is dead and so is his best friend. He thinks she is a total bitch for pointing it out so succinctly, even though she doesn't know it's what she's doing.

His eyes drop, his jaw clenches and it is abundantly clear to her that she has said the wrong thing. She swallows back her pain in the face of his. This was not part of the plan. Her hell was supposed to be cold, dry and achingly lonely, not soggy with guilt and warmed by the fires of temptation. A man who has been turned down flat gives up and goes away. She has never met a man who simply _won't_. She has never been in a situation where her heart is dancing the can-can, but her head bellows a string of warnings every time she glances in his direction, either. Her head is clever. Her head is reliably excellent. It is telling her that she will regret this later. That this is going to hurt, hurt, _hurt_.

'Listen,' she says, stepping closer. 'I'll do all the explaining you want when you're in better shape. I haven't changed my mind. _I won't_ change my mind. But right now, just tell me what you need.'

One whiskery kiss is followed by another, and another, and so on until her lips are burning. He leads her upstairs, kicks off his shoes and gingerly lies flat on his bed, watching avidly as she undresses before climbing up and straddling his hips. She unzips his sweater, peeling back the right-hand side and leaving the rest, and his sling, in place. She leans forward for more kisses, one breast meeting skin and one prevented. She doesn't bother to take his trousers right off, just makes sure not to catch him on the elasticated waistband. Both of them are more than ready. It jolts his shoulder, and it hurts, but he doesn't care. Five minutes later, both of them are so well done that they cannot speak for the bliss.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

The second thing he needs is a soak in the bath. She is there to help him sit down without banging his left elbow on the side – he has done this once so far, and the pain nearly made him vomit straight into the water.

He is left to his own devices with the county cricket round-up from the _Sunday Times_ sport section, a mug of tea, a bottle of shower gel and a flannel. When she comes back later, scrubs his feet, scrubs his back, drapes a towel over his shoulder and gently washes his hair, he thinks it's possible that Tom killed him and he's only just arrived in heaven.

She is carefully towelling dry his left armpit without lifting his arm. 'Do you want me to take a look under that?'

She points at the non-stick wound pad taped to his shoulder and manages not to weep about the gory scatter of half-healed pock-marks and lacerations decorating his bicep and upper chest.

'No, it's okay. One advantage of being so close to Thames House is that Sally comes over and changes it in the mornings. She gave me a number for the district nurse I've got to phone today. They'll visit the house and check things until I go back to work. The physio will be around for an assessment in a few days, too. She's an army girl with the right sort experience.'

It is amazing how quickly he is cheering up. She wipes a drop of water off the back of his neck with her thumb and wishes things could always be fixed using sex and bathing and tea. 'How is it looking?'

'Pretty scabby. They stitched up what they could, but most of it was relatively open. I've got some sort of skin graft on some of it. There are chips to the bone. The inflammation from those is what's mostly giving me the grief, now. It's messy. Shotguns always are.'

She leaves him happily napping between clean sheets in clean boxer shorts. She calls the district nurse. She goes home, packs a suitcase and comes back with two weeks' clothing.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

'Don't pick!'

'But it itches!'

'You'll make it bleed.'

'Oh, no! It might leave a scar!' he responds, a hand to his cheek in mock horror.

It is a Sunday afternoon at the beginning of August and there isn't a cloud in the sky. She is so short that when fully ensconced in one of his back garden deckchairs her feet don't touch the floor. She has to wiggle her bum forward and then push herself up to get out of her seat, and it never fails to make him smile. This time, the manoeuvre is accompanied by the doffing of sunglasses and a stern gaze. He knows he is about to get a talking to.

'Every time I see another bit of new, pink skin, it makes me happy,' she says. 'Every time I see a drop of blood it makes me cry.'

He has been picking his scabs a lot. It is a nasty little habit he has developed, now his dressings have gone, and the weather is hot enough to mooch about the house in nothing but shorts. The itching is unbelievable. There have been frequent drops of blood.

'I haven't seen you crying,' he replies, nonplussed.

'I hide. It doesn't last long.'

'Oh, Ruth.' He gets up and comes close, so that they stand toe to toe. 'I'll stop doing it. No more blood. Okay?'

She looks up at him with pellucid eyes that put the summer sky to shame and quickly pulls his head down for a kiss. As a rule, he is not a huge fan of kissing for kissing's sake alone. It's much more fun when it's a precursor to making love and he doesn't have to think about stopping until they are both satisfied. This time, though, he can sense that she is making a memory. He thinks about the implications and the impossibility of the words he has just uttered. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth and makes a memory too.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

He is at home and she goes to work. It is a month of horrific violence in Iraq and blessed peace in Britain. There is a rather awkward moment when Mark Thatcher gets arrested for involvement in an attempted _coup d'__é__tat_ in Equatorial Guinea. It wouldn't be the first time he has been asked to get the man out of trouble, and he spends two days wandering around central London with Scarlet, carefully avoiding the phone. By the end of the second day, he knows he will be ready for the Grid when the time comes.

Even as they are happening, both know they are halcyon days. Just an atypical period of calm during a perpetual season of storms. It lends a sparkling, brittle intensity to the happiness that neither of them even begins to acknowledge.

~ooooO0Ooooo~

TBC


End file.
